Saturday, October 13, 2012

Fen’s
eyes opened suddenly, and she heard them filling the night air, high and
shrieking. There was a sound like stone crumbling, and the canvas of Fen’s tent
whispered as something raced past it, toward the forest.

She
sat upright as the tent shook again. Through the thin walls, she could see the
faint pink glow of dawn. She had wrapped herself in her cloak and all the furs
she could find, and as she rose from her bedroll the icy cold closed around her
like a fist.

Fen
snatched up her gloves from the floor beside the smoking firepit and ducked
outside, her boot crunching down into fresh snow. She turned to face the fort,
and the sight that met her eyes sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to
do with the cold.

The
archway she had come through to get to the forest was in ruin, a heap of fallen
masonry and splintered wood. Smoke curled up in thick tendrils from the towers,
where fire leapt from the windows. Fen could see bodies strewn throughout the
courtyard.

She
pulled her gloves on as she quickly crossed the snow to the fort. Blood stained
the snow everywhere she looked – bodies lay violently mauled to pieces all
around her. One soldier had been thrown into the well in the centre of the
yard, so that the support beams pierced his heart and left him to hang there,
his eyes empty and staring and blood dripping steadily from one finger.

“Don’t
just stand there!” someone cried suddenly, and Fen saw a man tugging on the arm
of a dead soldier, one of his eyes bruised shut and his face smeared with blood.
“Help us! Do something!” Fen stared around. The wounded cried weakly from where
they lay in the snow, and a few soldiers that appeared to be unharmed were
moving among them, kneeling down and checking for a pulse. Fen glanced down and
saw a severed arm in the snow before her, sticky with blood. She stepped over
it, crossing the yard to a strong-jawed woman that was surveying the damage.

“Are
you the captain of this fort?” Fen asked her.

“They
took the captain,” the woman replied gruffly, turning her fierce eyes on Fen.
“The creatures. They took him during battle.”

“What
creatures?” Fen asked her, remembering the way her tent had moved as if
something rushed past it.

“Who
are you?” the woman asked, her eyes narrowing.

“That
doesn’t matter.” The soldier narrowed her eyes at Fen, and Fen held her gaze.

“You
want to help us?” she asked, and Fen nodded. “Fine. Come with me.” The woman
led Fen through a door that was hanging to the stone by one hinge, long
scratches raking down the wood. Fen stared at it as she passed over the
threshold into the interior of the fort.

“You
mentioned creatures,” she said, glancing around at the general quarters they
had entered. The fort had even been attacked here – tapestries were torn from
the walls, furniture splintered into ruin, blood smeared along the floor,
around a corner, and out of sight. “What were they?”

“Creatures
like I never want to see again,” the woman told her, turning to face her as two
men hurried by, supporting a sobbing third man between them. Fen looked down
and realized the third soldier’s leg had been torn off, his knee ending in a
bloody stump. “They looked a bit like wolves, but…” she shook her head. “I’ve
seen a wolf every day since I came to Frostmoth. Those…things were something else.” She leaned forward slightly as another
soldier walked hurriedly past them, clutching his arm with his face twisted in
agony. “I’d say they were werewolves.”

“Werewolves?”
Fen repeated, puzzled. She knew that all manner of were-creatures dwelt in
Daggerfall, but that was on the opposite end of Tamriel, nowhere near
Morrowind. “There are werewolves on Solstheim?”

“There
are a great many creatures on Solstheim,” the woman told Fen quietly.
“Creatures that no one would ever wish to meet. But I’ve never seen a werewolf
on this island. And I never would have imagined a huge pack of them would
attack like that. There must have been hundreds. I saw the captain run into
battle, but he was gone after that. We haven’t found his body, so they must
have taken him somewhere.” A shadow crossed her face and her eyes narrowed. “My
guess is that those savages from the Nord village have something to do with
this.” Fen glared at the woman coolly. Her time with the Ashlanders had
cultivated a distaste for those that passed judgment without cause.

“Have
you ever been to this village?”

“No,”
the woman replied gruffly, going to the remains of a wooden chest and picking
through it, looking for something. “It’s on the northeastern tip of Solstheim. These Skaal,
that’s what they call themselves, they’re nature-worshippers, and they seem to
have a special commune with the creatures of this island. If anyone knows what
attacked the fort, it would be them.” She straightened up, holding a
half-rotted skull that was heavily carved with runes and symbols. “Earn their
trust and find out what you can. You may have to remain with them for a while,
but I you’re up to the task.” She held the skull out to Fen. “Here, take this –
it was found in one of their tombs. Perhaps they will take it as a sign of good
faith.” Fen accepted the skull and carefully tucked it away.

“You know,” she said
coldly to the woman as she started for the door. “It would be wise for you to
actually speak to a person once before you label them a savage. You might not
even have this problem if it weren’t for your petty Imperial prejudices.” She
turned sharply away and left the soldier standing there, going out into the
carnage-streaked courtyard.

The sun had risen
behind a thick wall of grey cloud, and it settled over the land with a grim
chill as Fen left through the ruined archway and started toward the forest. A
gentle hill flanked by trees sloped upward, and sitting at its base was a
wide-bellied Nord man with a flask in one hand and a paring knife in the other.

“Hail, wanderer,” he
said as Fen approached. “You plan to travel the wastes of Solstheim as I do?”
Fen nodded. “Keep your wits about you, then. There’re worse things in those
woods than wolves and bears. Things that want your blood more than anything
else in the world.”

“What sort of
creatures?” Fen asked him, shaking her head as he offered her his flask.

“Terrible things,” he
replied. “Men the Nords call ‘bare-sarks’ in the our tongue, because of their
insistence on going bare-chested even in the most severe blizzard. They’re
crazy as they come, friend, and care only for savagery and murder. It is said
they are so attracted to death, they make their homes in some of Solstheim’s
burial barrows. There are the fryse hags, too, mages dedicated to the teachings
of Kyne, the widow of the god Shor. Each is a powerful sorceress skilled in the
use of frost-based magicka. They’re vicious lasses, and view most people as a
threat to their beliefs. They’ve been seen out in the wild, and in a couple of
the ice caves.”

A cold chill swept
through the ruined fort off the sea, and Fen felt gooseflesh rise on her arms
despite the heavy cloak she wore. The Nord looked thoughtfully up at the sky.
“Blizzard’s coming,” he muttered, taking another swig of mead.

“How far away is the
village?” Fen asked him.

“A fair few hours
straight there,” he replied. “But it’s Solstheim you’re traversing, not
Cyrodiil. You won’t be stopping to pick flowers along a cobblestone path.” He
chuckled grimly. “Straight north, just follow the Iggnir River up to Lake
Fjalding. And good luck.”

“Thank you,” Fen told
him, and she began to climb the hill, her boots gripping to the slick snow as
she went. She reached the top just as a heavy gust of wind blew heavily from
behind, making her stumble slightly. She regained her footing and glanced up,
and the sight took her breath away.

The island of
Solstheim spread out before her, stretching far into the distance. The land
dipped down into an evergreen-filled valley, the waxy green trees thickly
coated in the previous evening’s snow. Farther in the distance, jagged
mountains rose steeply out of the forest, far taller than the mountains in
Vvardenfell and coated with everlasting snow. The Iggnir River spiraled out in
front of her, weaving down into the valley and out of sight. The island felt
oddly silent, as if the snow had quieted every sound. A lone wolf from
somewhere in the forest howled, an eerie noise that echoed off the walls of the
valley. The wind whispered past Fen, stinging her ears with its cold.

She slowly pulled her
fur-lined hood over her head, still marveling at the sight. She knew Solstheim
was completely inhospitable, but its breathtaking beauty was undeniable, even
if it was manifested in a strange, eerie way. Fen carefully began her descent
into the forest, taking her staff from its place on her back. She felt bulky
and strange clad in heavy bearskin boots and a fur cloak, her trappings making
noise with every step she took, for so used she was to walking the volcanic
Ashlands with a thin robe and summer boots. But it was mercifully warm inside
her many layers with Effe-Tei’s broach, and for that she was grateful.

Soon Fen had passed
under the branches of the evergreens and was enveloped by the cool darkness of
the Hirstaang Forest. A narrow deer trail wound around the trunks and out of
sight. Fen followed it, her eyes narrowed against the chill. She had barely
walked for ten minutes when a sudden rustling in the brush made her pause. Fen
only had time to register the low snarl in the shadows before the wolf was upon
her, its jaws wide and its enormous paws poised to bring her down.

Taken by surprise,
Fen felt the wolf’s paws struck her shoulders and slammed her into a tree
trunk, its teeth snapping at her. She pressed her hand into the fur at its
chest, forcing it backward, and cast a simple drain health spell. The wolf
yelped and slackened, falling limply atop her. Fen rolled its body off her and
knelt to examine it. Its fur was matted and dirty, its eyes muddy brown and its
teeth half-rotted. Solstheim had not been kind to the creature. Fen stood
slowly, casting her eyes warily through the low-hanging branches. There didn’t
seem to be any other movement around, but she proceeded with caution all the
same.

The rest of the hour
saw little incident for Fen, and soon the trees began to thin and she found
herself crossing the land called the Isinfier Plains. There were more hills the
climb over here and fewer trees, and the wind came screaming down from the
mountains and blasted Fen with all its force as she struggled through the
untouched snow. The Nord scout outside Fort Frostmoth had been right – a storm
was coming, and it was beginning to show. The clouds churned anxiously, and the
air was bitterly cold.

The wolves here were
more frequent, and now they were accompanied by bears, monstrous creatures that
Fen had never even seen drawings of. They towered above her like bloated,
fur-covered Durzogs, their roars reverberating throughout the valley and their
colossal clawed paws swiping at her face. They were more difficult to take down
than the wolves, and Fen found herself reverting to quick usages of potions
more often than she would have liked.

It was only after she
managed to take down three of these beasts that she encountered one of the
islands more notorious inhabitants. Fen had only just pulled Trueflame from the
belly of a bear, its entrails spilling out onto the snow, when a powerful spell
just barely missed her, hitting the ground and causing a geyser of ice to erupt
there. Fen spun around and saw a simply clothed Nordic woman there, her face
lost amid runic tattoos and paintings, a wolf snarling by her side. A fryse hag, she thought, remembering
the scout’s words.

The hag sent another
spell at Fen, and Fen quickly raised a fire shield before her to deflect it.
The spell bounced away and Fen let loose a range of God’s Fire, enveloping the
hag in flame. The snow had finally begun to fall, and it was becoming difficult
to see through the thickening flakes. When the blast cleared, the fryse hag was
screaming in an archaic tongue, and the wolf suddenly leapt toward Fen.

She pulled Trueflame
from her belt and deflected the wolf with a swift curl of her wrist. It sprang
away, snarling and spraying blood across the snow, and Fen ducked as another
spell from the fryse hag went hurtling overhead. The woman abandoned her
spellcasting and ran at Fen, a dagger glinting in her hand. Fen quickly slid
Trueflame through the wolf’s heart as it leapt at her again, then turned her
attention to the fryse hag a second too late. The steel of the Nord’s dagger
bit through Fen’s heavy cloak, slicing along her forearm until Fen managed to
shove her away and finish her with a well-placed jab from Trueflame.

Fen pulled her cloak
back and rolled up the sleeve of her robe, wincing as the cold cinched her bare
arm. It was almost impossible to see now – everything was grey, and snow was
shooting down fiercely all around her. She felt light-headed as she examined
the long cut on her arm. She had received far worse injuries in the past.

“Don’t move,” a deep
voice behind her suddenly boomed over the blizzard. “We’ve twenty arrows
pointed at your back.” Fen froze, her fingers flying to Trueflame at her hip.
“Turn around,” the voice commanded. “Slowly!” Fen did so, and she saw the vague
shapes of men, a large group of them, all with bows strung to kill her. “Who
are you?” someone shouted.

“Fen,” she called
back. A particularly fierce gust of wind rocked her and she stumbled. She could
hear the bowstrings tighten despite the wind.

“What business do you
have on Skaal hunting ground, Fen?” a man at the front of the group demanded.

“I can only plead
ignorance,” she called. “I am not from these lands. I wish your people no harm.
Truly.” She saw a few of the men exchange looks.

“Lower your bows!”
the leader finally shouted, and they did. “Come with us,” he said gruffly to
Fen. “We will take you to our chieftain. He will know how to deal with you.”
The men closed in a square around her, and she pulled her hood up again,
casting a silent healing spell to stitch the wound on her arm.

They walked for
nearly an hour through the blizzard, trudging through deep snow and shallow
parts of the river and weaving through trees and scrub. Fen’s face had lost
feeling – the tips of her fingers, even beneath their gloves, were numb, and
though she clenched her fur-lined cloak as tightly around herself as she could,
the air still bit cruelly at her from all sides, sending deep chills down into
her boots.

The hunters began to
lead her up a steep hill, the wind bearing down on them from all sides. It
howled fiercely through the grey air, resisting their climb with all its might.
Fen burrowed more deeply into her hood, her jaw quivering. Soon they had
reached the hill’s summit, and Fen saw a fair-sized village stood on its top, a
village of wooden cottages overlooking the lake far below. She could not see
much through the blizzard, however, and the hunters led her straight to the
largest building, standing in the centre of town. The door was opened and she
stepped inside. It closed after her, shutting out the sound of the relentless
snow.

Fen let out a sigh of
relief as the warmth of the building enveloped her. The men had not accompanied
her inside, and she stepped out of the small foyer, pulling down her hood and
gazing around. It seemed to be some sort of hunting lodge – built from
sturdy-looking logs and supported by four tall, carved pillars. A rectangular
section of floor in the centre of the room was sunken down, cluttered with an
ashy firepit and several benches. At the head of the room, a high-backed chair
draped with furs stood on a raised dais. A stuffed cliffracer was strung from
the ceiling by several thick ropes, its glassy eyes wide and its beak open. It
was bigger than any cliffracer Fen had seen on Vvardenfell – its enormous wings
scraped the tall pillars on either side of it. The light from the candles danced
in its dark glass eyes.

She walked slowly
into the room, which was pleasantly warm despite the absence of a fire. Fen
pulled off her gloves, staring up at the cliffracer. The hunting lodge was dim,
the only light coming from a few iron chandeliers that were covered in melted
wax and the three or four candelabras that dotted the walls. Outside, the wind
of the snowstorm still howled violently.

Fen heard the door
open suddenly, and the blizzard’s cries increased tenfold. She turned to see
the shapes of three men, silhouetted against the wall of white snow outside.
They ducked under the low wooden beams of the foyer and came into the main
lodge, giving Fen a proper view – two of them were clad in intricate Nordic
armour, their faces mostly covered by the helms they wore. The man between them,
however, left his head bare, covered only by thick white hair that hung across
his shoulders in braids. His face was pale and weathered, pockmarked with age
and scars from battle, his mouth a fierce, downturned line. His eyes were a
bright, unnerving blue, and they seemed to stand out from the rest of his face.
He stopped several metres away, his gloved hand resting on the pommel of a
broadsword at his hip.

“Geric,” he said, in
a surprisingly strong and steady voice. “Send for Frid to light the fire.” One
of the guards that had entered with him nodded and passed Fen without looking
her, climbing up a set of narrow wooden stairs and out of sight. “So,” the man
said, taking several strides forward. “The hunters tell me that you were found
on our grounds in the storm.”

“Then you should not
be here,” the man said haggardly. “Solstheim is not a place for the unfamiliar.
Especially people of your kind.” He frowned.

“The Nords and the
Dunmer may have warred in the past, serjo, but I assure you, I hold no
prejudice.”

“You are very
different from the Imperials in the south, then.”

“I am.” The man
studied her, his icy eyes training deeply into hers. A freckled young Nord
woman appeared from the stairwell suddenly, going to kneel by the firepit.

“Sit,” the old man
said, and Fen took a place on one of the benches. The woman muttered a simple
fire spell and the firepit crackled into life. She bobbed her head toward the
man without looking at him.

“Chieftain,” she
murmured respectfully.

“Thank you, Frid,” he
replied, sitting down heavily across from Fen. Frid bobbed her head again and
retreated upstairs. “What do you call yourself, stranger?”

“Fen.” His cold eyes
narrowed.

“An unusual name for
a Dark Elf.”

“So I’ve been told.”
He paused, as if waiting for her to elaborate. She did not.

“I am Tharsten
Heart-Fang, chieftain of the Skaal.”

“It is an honour,
chieftain,” Fen told him, inclining her head slightly.

“You are courteous,
for an outsider.”

“I spent much of my
time several years ago among the Ashlanders of Vvardenfell,” she replied.
“Their ways, too, are very different from my own.” She undid the catches of her
cloak, letting it slide off her shoulders, and reached for her bag at her feet,
carefully drawing out the rotted skull, wrapped in burlap. “I believe this
belongs to your people, Chieftain,” she said, holding it out to him. Heart-Fang
took the bundle and flipped the burlap over, revealing the skull. A sour look
crossed his face.

“Where did you find
this?”

“It was given to me
by the Imperials of Fort Frostmoth,” she told him. “They have recently been
attacked, and asked if I would travel to your village to speak with you.” Fen
paused. “Though I have no great love for the Imperials.”

“How were they
attacked?” Heart-Fang asked skeptically, looking up over the skull at her, his
weathered face critical.

“They said it was by
wolf-creatures,” Fen replied. “I did not see the attack itself, but I saw the
carnage it left. No wolf could have unleashed that kind of fury.”

“Those soldiers!”
Heart-Fang said angrily. “They cut their trees and dig their holes, and have
little to show after a day’s toil. They do not respect this land or its
creatures, and for that, I find them offensive.” He shook his head doggedly. “But,
though I have no love for them, the Skaal would never do such a thing. We
prefer to let the Imperials kill themselves slowly. But these creatures that
attacked...these were not wolves of this island.” He held out the skull to the
guard by the door, who came forward to take it. “Gods curse those Imperials,”
he remarked fiercely. “They need to learn to leave things as they are. Still,
it is good that you have returned this to the Skaal. Perhaps there is hope for
you and your kind.”

“I would do what I
can to restore goodwill between our people, if it was ever there.”

“The Imperials in
their fort have brought nothing but harm to these lands,” Heart-Fang told her,
shaking his head as he sat back down. “They cut the trees and dig the earth.
They are wasteful, lazy, and careless. They have no comprehension of the
Oneness of the land. It is this Oneness from which the Skaal derive our
strength, and the Imperials have defiled these lands.”

“What is the
Oneness?” Fen asked.

“The Oneness is
balance,” Heart-Fang replied. “It is the balance of our lands, the trees and
the waters, wolf and bear. It is from the Oneness that the Skaal derive their
power. We have tried time and time again to reconcile with the Imperials, but they
are stubborn and refuse to change their ways. Perhaps it is right that you do help
to restore the power of the Skaal, as it is your people who have caused the
damage.”

“I do not call the
Imperials family, Chieftain. Far from it.”

“The people of Tamriel
are one to us,” he replied sharply. “They do not understand the way of the
earth and the wind.” He stood suddenly. “We are wary, but we are not cruel. I
will not ask you to brave the blizzard. You may stay in our village until it
subsides, but do not harm our people. Speak with Korst Wind-Eye, in the Shaman’s
Hut. He will give you further instructions. Ledd will take you there,” he said,
gesturing to the guard by the door.

“Thank you,” Fen told
him, standing up and drawing her cloak over her shoulders. Heart-Fang did not
reply, but sat silently, watching her as she pulled her hood up and followed
Ledd to the door.

They found Korst
Wind-Eye sitting at the back of his one-room house before the fireplace, a book
in his hands and a thick pelt across his lap. He turned as Ledd escorted her
in, and Fen saw he was just as old, if not older, than Heart-Fang, but there
was much more wisdom in his dark eyes.

“Thank you, Ledd,” he
said, and the guard nodded and retreated out of the hut, back into the storm.
“Greetings to you, wanderer,” he said, reaching for a gnarled wooden cane that
lay on the floor beside his chair. “Why have you come to our village?” He
pulled the pelt aside and slowly raised himself up on the cane, limping
slightly as he crossed the hut toward her.

“My name is Fen,” she
told him. “Your chieftain asked me to come.” Wind-Eye gave her a curious look.

“Fen,” he repeated
slowly. “Are you, perhaps, the Fen that they call the Nerevarine in the south?”
She nodded, and he smiled faintly. “I had a feeling I would be meeting you
someday, Lady Fen. Please, sit.” He gestured to a chair beside his with his
free hand and limped over to the sideboard to pour tea. “You’ve come to
Solstheim at an unfortunate time,” he told her as she sat down before the fire.
“The summers are bad enough, but Sun’s Dusk brings the cruelest winters in
Tamriel. Besides in Skyrim, perhaps,” he added, handing her a teacup and
returning to the sideboard to pour himself one with his free hand.

“Are you from Skyrim,
serjo?” Fen asked, curling her hands around the cup. The tea was too hot to
drink, but it warmed her palms and sent fragrant steam whispering up into her
face.

“I was born there,
near Whiterun,” he replied, sitting down with a sigh of relief and carefully
laying down his cane. “I came to Solstheim with my family when I was a boy. My
grandmother used to be a Skaal, and she knew that the shaman here would need an
apprentice soon. And with my bad leg, there was little opportunity for me in a
place like Skyrim.”

“How long have the
Skaal lived in Solstheim?”

“Oh, for as long as I
can remember. I used to hear tales about them when I was still in Skyrim, tales
of how they were terrible men that could turn into wolves at will.” He
chuckled, scratching his yellow beard with one hand. “I hope the Imperials have
not been telling you similar rumours.”

“I try to spend as
little time with the Imperials as possible,” Fen said, and Wind-Eye laughed
heartily.

“You must have spent
enough time with them to know if the whispers about this attack have any truth
to them,” he said, his laughter fading quickly.

“How did you hear
about that?” Fen asked curiously. Korst did not reply, merely smiled. “They
were attacked by wolf-creatures,” she told him. “And the chieftain assured me
that the Skaal were not to blame.”

“That is true,”
Wind-Eye said seriously. “The Skaal are brethren to the wolves of this island,
nothing more. We do not command them, and we certainly do not share bodies with
them. It would be like those soldiers to suggest it.”

“Heart-Fang also mentioned
the Oneness,” Fen said, and Wind-Eye turned to look at her, the reflection of
the fire glinting in his eye.

“There is a careful
balance that lies in all things of this world,” the shaman said, holding his
hands out on either side of him, his palms facing upward and held at equal
height. “The animals, the trees, even the rocks and the winds. It is a harmony
that the Skaal draw power from, by the grace of the All-Maker, He who gave us
these gifts. But when this balance is upset,” he said, dropping one hand and
raising the other, “our power is lessened.”

“Heart-Fang wishes
for me to restore the power of the Skaal.”

“Does he?” Wind-Eye
said, dropping his hands. “Then I will assist you. There is a ritual that must
be completed. On Solstheim, you will find six Standing Stones, each
representing one of the six gifts of the All-Maker. At each of these Stones, a
ritual must be completed. Once the Ritual of the Gifts is complete, the Oneness
should be restored.”

“The Ritual of the
Gifts?”

“It would be too much
for any not of the Skaal to remember,” Wind-Eye said, picking up his cane again
and standing slowly. He went to a desk littered with scraps of parchment and
drew two our of their stacks. “Here, take this,” he said, holding out the
first. It was a roughly-drawn map of Solstheim, marked with six tall
finger-like shapes. “It will explain the rituals and guide you on your way.
This scroll may be of some use to you as well,” he added, giving her the second
sheet. “If you are to remain with the Skaal, you should understand our beliefs.”
Fen unfolded the sheet and saw it was a story, the top of the scroll
illuminated with The Story of Aevar
Stone-Singer.

“I imagine the snow
will continue until nightfall,” Wind-Eye told her, cracking a shutter and
peering out at the blanket of white that shrouded the world outside. “A few
hours, at least. If you return to the hunting lodge, you will find hospitality
there.”

“Thank you,” Fen
said, standing and tucking the two papers into her cloak. Wind-Eye nodded.

“Good luck to you, Fen.”

Outside, the world
was strangely silent. There were no people about, and the only things Fen could
see were the dim outlines of houses that were sealed tight against the cold.
She had only made it a few steps through the knee-deep snow when she saw a familiar
silhouette standing before her in the gale. Fen squinted. She was sure she
recognized that wiry frame, the jaggedly cropped dark hair…

“Julan?” she
whispered, but her voice was lost in the howling wind. Then she blinked, and
the figure was gone, leaving her alone in the silent, pale world.